In Want of a Knife
by PleasedAsPunch
Summary: Pride and Prejudice, espionage-style. Meet Lizzie, Agent 002-MI6 operative, and the enigmatic codename Darcy. Whose side is he on?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Not my usual Rose/Ten fare. I haven't abandoned that; I just wanted to do this.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that cover, once blown, leaves an agent, however clever, more or less to her own devices. Agent 002 repeated this to herself as she screwed a suppressor onto her pistol.

It wasn't as if she was wont to blow her cover, but there were moments, especially given the constant chatter coming from her earpiece, that she would rather scrap the entire affair and do things her own way, but she was smarter than to contradict the will of the head of MI6. Most of the time.

"Are you listening to a word I'm saying?" she heard hissing from her earpiece. She snapped back into focus as her finger curled around the trigger of the gun, anticipating her target.

"Not yet!" she heard again, and she relaxed her grip.

Agent 002 crouched quietly within the shadows of the 23rd floor of a nondescript office building.

"Let 001 take the lead," she heard again. Lizzie rolled her eyes. She had nothing against 001. They were, in fact, the closest of colleagues, almost partners in a line of work that demanded self-sufficiency and singular operation.

Lizzie peeked around the cubicle wall. The target was almost in place. It was a matter of moments, seconds even. This was one time she did not envy the distinct preference their director had for 001. Her work was clean and neat—perhaps she didn't take on the most difficult of assignments, but there was something desirable about having 001 on the front page of a mission report. She was an ideal agent, compensated for the rash behavior of others, and made MI6 look responsible.

"Netherfield is go," she heard whispered finally.

The seconds before the engagement of a mission tended to warp strangely and slowly. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, the uncertainty of success mixed with the innate rejection of failure. Whatever it was, the quietest of sounds dilated and filled the air, lights became brighter, and her heart beat with alarming alacrity.

Lizzie heard the whooshing sound of 001 spinning to face the windowed front of the building, the thump of her firearm as it flew down the barrel and out the suppressor, the sharp shattering of glass, the distant chime of a second broken window.

She was back-up, 002 reminded herself. This was Jane's show. She was only here in case something went wrong.

Lizzie realized the silence that pervaded the room. She had taken two breaths since the sound of the fired gun. Surely the target had been eliminated.

"Target remains," she heard Jane whisper, her voice shot of confidence. Lizzie tightened her hand around her gun, but not enough to fire a round.

"Should I—?"

"No," she heard from their director. "Withdraw. She knows now."

"She's fled," responded Lizzie, regarding the building across from their own.

"She'll tighten her hold."

"Undoubtedly," Lizzie responded.

"Caroline knows we want him for our side. We can't afford more mistakes," said the director.

"But you said the Prime Minister has already contacted him, that it's just a matter of getting him away from _her_," Jane responded.

"Withdraw now; we'll discuss this once I've seen the full mission report."

"It isn't as if she's holding him captive. They're siblings," continued 002.

"That's enough, Lizzie. Withdraw and we'll start again. We must acquire Charles Bingley, and we're running out of options."

_Please review!_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I promise the next chapter will be longer and more interesting.**

There was a time when society might call his kind _new money_. Now they called it _entrepreneurship_ and_smart investing_. Nothing illegal, of course, but with a hand in every major industry, he was certainly a well-connected man in high demand, often by less-than-savory parties.

Lizzie propped her feet up on her desk as she paged through Mr. Bingley's file. For eyes only, of course. She peered at his details. Normally they had a very limited amount of information on desirables, as they too were intrenched in the shadows of espionage—well-hidden to the point of being practically invisible.

But Mr. Bingley was not of their sort. He was a businessman, precisely the opposite of what she would normally expect. He was, according to his file, a well-liked, aimable sort of man who was not only open in his business dealings, but generally known to be a friend to every person he encountered.

This confused Lizzie, and she flipped the file closed. How would they acquire a man through subterfuge when his own lifestyle was so well-disclosed? Beyond that, how could a person find something to like in everyone he met?

Regardless, Caroline now knew someone was after him. Her hold on him would undoubtedly tighten. Caroline was a mystery in herself. All of their research had come up clean; she had no dealings with dubious people. She was, for all intents and purposes, simply her brother's handler, but Lizzie suspected something more. Though without evidence, they could only surveil her.

There was a knock on her office door. She liked the idea of having an office, mostly because she was never in it.

"Lizzie," said a voice. The Director. "Are you decent?"

Lizzie opened to door and the Director walked in without waiting to be invited. She was a husky sort of woman in her middle age. She was not the type one would expect to run MI6, but she ran a surprisingly efficient ship, and could be ruthless when the occasion called for it.

"Why would you think I wouldn't be decent?" Lizzie asked in return.

"I never know what you agents are up to when I'm not around, perhaps a personal failing of mine considering I'm supposed to know your every move. Espionage seems to have taken a broader definition these days. Anyway, you were supposed to meet me in my office an hour ago to discuss your next instructions."

"I thought you said we were meeting in my office."

"You don't have an office, you're a double 0."

"Oh, right." That would explain why she felt like she was never in her office. "And Jane?"

"She has an office, yes. _She_ does her own paperwork."

"No, I mean, is she coming to the meeting?" As she spoke, Jane quietly opened the door and walked in. Jane was tall and blond and in Lizzie's opinion, the perfect female specimen. She was an ideal agent as she could attract even the most elusive of targets simply by being in the same room.

The Director handed each of them a file.

"Jane is taking the lead on this one."

Of course she was, Lizzie thought, but she really didn't take much issue with it.

"The British Museum is having a gala?" Jane asked.

"And you two will be in attendance."

"To keep an eye on Mr. Bingley? I assume he'll be there."

"He will indeed be there," the Director responded. "And I should hope you keep an eye on him."

"But?" Lizzie hedged.

"But, as I was going to say, Jane, if you would be so kind, you'll need to seduce Charles Bingley."

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Lizzie stood in the corner of the room surveying the partygoers, the throats dripping with diamonds and pearls, the goose-pimpled shoulders of women freshly divested of their furs. She took a sip of her champagne, tipping the flute delicately but with a certain amount of absentmindedness as she scanned the crowd in front of her.

She wore a dusty blue chiffon evening gown with thin straps and a loosely cinched waist where the skirt fell like water to her feet. It was enough to make her look forgettably pretty.

Jane, on the other hand, was anything but. She walked around the room in a way that demanded a different word for the action altogether. _Cascaded_, Lizzie thought, _was probably a more accurate term_. While Lizzie had opted for more sedate formalwear, Jane's shimmering gold dress made her sparkle among the others. Jane would have attracted attention no matter what she wore, but she was unequivocally breathtaking in this evening's ensemble.

"You've not been in here five minutes and you've attracted the attention of every person in the room," Lizzie whispered into her mike, which was lodged surreptitiously within her cleavage. Jane flicked her eyes over to Lizzie as she spoke animatedly to one of the grand-dames of the evening, as if to admonish her excessive praise.

As Jane turned away she muttered, "Have you seen him?"

"Not yet, I don't think he's arrived. You'll know as soon as I do." Lizzie watched Jane nod slightly in acknowledgement as she accepted a flute of champagne from one of her admirers.

"In what capacity was she here tonight?" she heard the man ask through her earpiece.

"Oh, yes, she'd given a gift to the museum's library."

"A rather _large_ endowment, then?" the man continued, his tone becoming leering.

Jane might be one of the most polite people she had ever known, but she was also the same woman who'd shot a man in the heart early last year.

"A very large endowment, indeed, sir," her tone was clipped but still lovely. "If you'd excuse me, I believe I've just seen the Duchess; I must say hello."

Lizzie's eyes wandered over to the party's entrance, where indeed stood the Duchess of Cambridge and her husband, looking appropriately composed and royal. It was London's social event of the year, where royals, socialites, and entrepreneurs alike made themselves known in honor and for the benefit of the British Museum. Lizzie rightly guessed that had they not been asked for a donation, most of the attendees would likely have never stepped food inside the museum's walls. As her eyes glanced over the Duchess's dress, a conservative shade of gray that regardless suited her, her eyes caught a tuft of blond hair from behind the Duchess's shoulder.

"Jane," Lizzie whispered. "Behind Cambridge. It appears Mr. Bingley has arrived."

Jane shook the Duchess's hand, then the Duke's and smiled more gracefully and sincerely than Lizzie could likely ever muster, which is why, she imagined, she was never the frontrunner on any of their missions. She lacked the charm necessary to fool anyone who as not a fool himself.

Mr. Bingley caught the attention of the Duke, who turned and gave him a great smile and an enthusiastic handshake. _Of course they were friends_, Lizzie thought. Next to Mr. Bingley stood what was apparently a sort of entourage in miniature, for he was flanked by a woman in an ostentatious red dress-his imperious sister, Caroline-and a man whose face she did not know.

"Caroline!" the Duchess said. "You must meet Jane. We go back to primary school." Lizzie thought she knew everything there was to know about Jane, but this was a piece of information new to her.

Caroline smiled weakly, affectedly, the only kind of smile that Lizzie imagined Caroline Bingley was capable of.

"And Charles, you must meet Jane as well. What is it you are doing these days, Jane? I've not seen you in so long."

"I buy art. And sell it, sometimes at least, when there are buyers." Jane dispensed the lie with natural grace.

"Art, you say, Ms…..?" Mr. Bingley began.

"Fairhart. But do call me Jane."

"Indeed, Jane it is, then."

The group continued to talk at length about that thing or this thing, a play, or book, or painting they found particularly interesting. Lizzie stood and watched from afar. While almost all of the company spoke energetically-save for Caroline, but Lizzie didn't count her—the man whose face she didn't know remained silent and relatively still, except for moments when he would shift uncomfortably as if he did not want to be there.

"Jane," Lizzie whispered, hoping Jane wouldn't start at her sudden interjection. "Who is that gentleman with the dark hair?"

There was a brief pause on the other end before Jane turned around abruptly.

"Oh! I can't believe I forgot, Your Highnesses. My sister is here, and I shamefully forgot to introduce her."

Jane motioned for Lizzie to join her. This was not the plan. Lizzie was supposed to observe, remain in a backup capacity only. She wasn't supposed to become involved.

"Jane," Lizzie said, speaking through barred teeth. "Who are these friends of yours? Your Highnesses, I know, but from reputation only, of course." Sometimes Jane and Lizzie went undercover as sisters. While they didn't precisely look related, they also didn't look not-related. It was a convenient lie enough. Lizzie tried to throw Jane a look as if to say, _What the _hell_ are you playing at_?

"Lizzie, these are Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Charles Bingley, his sister Caroline, and…" her voice trailed off. Apparently she had not yet been introduced to this enigmatic fellow.

"How rude of me," Mr. Bingley said with a smile. "This is my dear friend Mr. Darcy. You might try and call him William, but he doesn't like it. So instead _you_ must call _me_ Charles."

"Indeed," she replied. Lizzie could have sworn she saw a blush rise in Jane's cheeks, but if was even there, it was certainly only the champagne.

"Mr. Darcy," Lizzie said by way of greeting. "A pleasure to meet you." She wasn't exactly sure if it was a pleasure, but this was a benefit, and she imagined one was supposed to be polite during benefits.

Mr. Darcy nodded stiffly in reply. As he did so, the small chamber orchestra placed right at the entrance of the Egyptian wing, began playing an energetic waltz to kick off the evening's merriments.

"Excellent! I love dancing!" exclaimed Mr. Bingley. "Tell me, Jane, would you be interested in being my partner, if just for this dance? I am an abominable dancer, but I am enthusiastic enough."

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Bingley—sorry, Charles." Jane took his proffered hands and they made their way to the makeshift dance floor. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it was Mr. Bingley—no, _Charles_—who was the one seducing Jane, but Jane was the consummate professional, she was simply throwing herself into character.

"And you," Lizzie began, turning to the dark-haired man in front of her, "do you dance, Mr. Darcy?"

"I try to avoid it if I can." Not expecting rejection, Lizzie glanced awkwardly away and settled her eyes on the floor, which she thought spot as good as any. When she looked up again, she saw Caroline's fleeting sneer before she looked again at her brother and Jane dancing.

"I quite agree, Mr. Darcy," she said finally, looking Darcy straight in the eye. "I find it a foolish pastime only enjoyed by fools. I rather imagine both your friend and my sister are wont to be foolish, only I would not paint them as fools per se. Maybe it is dancing that makes fools of all of us, for if dancing makes me a fool, then I should prefer to be the Queen's jester than the very soul of Stephen Fry."

On this note, Lizzie promptly turned and headed for the doors, but not before whispering to Jane into her mike, "I believe you have this all under control. I'll report back to the Director myself. I hope you have a successful evening, 002."

She tried not to sound hurt, but there was something about that man, Mr. Darcy, that made her feel inexplicably angry.

**Please review!**


End file.
